


where i end and you begin

by bklt



Category: Wynonna Earp (TV)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Hurt, Multi, Self-Harm, Takes place between s2 and s3, Wyncedes but honestly Wynonna's just kinda all over the place, yeah sorry this is just a wordjumble of being sad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-05
Updated: 2020-01-05
Packaged: 2021-02-27 05:15:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,919
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22121656
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bklt/pseuds/bklt
Summary: How many times had she been in the passenger seat of Mercedes’ car? Cigarette smoke still reminded her of it. The smell of summer, wet leaves. Worms. What the A/C in the convenience store felt like.Wynonna rolled up the window. The summer would never come again.Wynonna's not having a good time and is having an even worse time with coping.
Relationships: Waverly Earp/Nicole Haught, Wynonna Earp/Mercedes Gardner
Comments: 5
Kudos: 20





	where i end and you begin

**Author's Note:**

> Hey!
> 
> So this fic references some details in my other Wyncedes fic, "Behind my smile, it shakes my teeth". It's not required reading or anything, but it gives some context to one of the parts in this fic.
> 
> Also, another warning for self-injury. If that is something that triggers you, you might want to pass on this one.

Automatic.

Aim. Click. Squeeze. Bang.

The metallic ping of the bullet echoed off into the empty landscape around her, the old, rusted can a bent husk in the snow. 

This was therapeutic.

Aim. Click. Squeeze. Bang.

Mindfulness, wasn’t it? Here in the moment, focusing on the familiar weight of Peacemaker bucking in her hand, all outside thoughts passing like leaves in the wind. She was pretty sure Waverly would tell her that’s not what mindfulness exercises were supposed to be, but it worked all the same. Droning repetition. Something to not think about absolutely everything. 

Bulshar.

Aim. Click.

Mercedes.

Squeeze.

Alice.

Bang.

A hollowness of great importance. After all, feeling nothing was much better. Only snow, cold and a gun. The Homestead behind and beside her. Nicole’s car—her actual car—parked in front. She’d been around more since…

Nope. Mindfulness. Push the thought away.

At least Waverly had someone who could function around her.

Aim. Click Squeeze.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


Bang.

The satisfying syllables of shattering glass. A fun thought: take the shards and crush them between the palms, feel warmth and biting red pool. Another type of mindfulness. It’d drown out a lot more.

She licked her cracked lips. Speaking of drowning.

But the sound of the door to the Homestead creaking open interrupted her would-be ritual, Nicole trudging towards Wynonna in her flannel pjs and winter jacket. There wasn’t much for Wynonna to do besides awkwardly watch her approach, shuffling around and thumping Peacemaker on her thigh.

“Waverly send you?”

Nicole didn’t answer until she was standing beside Wynonna, scanning the line of broken targets that had met their demise from Wynonna’s meditation. “My turn to make breakfast, so…”

“Ah.”

There weren’t any bird calls to shriek away the silence. Strange.

“And, uh, checking in,” Nicole added.

A forced smile. “Doing great, Haught.”

“You’ve been doin' target practice since 7am. Either you haven’t slept yet or you couldn’t.”

 _Why not both?_ Wynonna thought with bitter amusement. This was annoying. They’d been around each other enough that they’d both caught on to each other’s regular non-regularities. As it turned out, both of them loved to be consumed by work when they felt as lost as they had been. Constantly hunting revenants was Wynonna’s solace—police work and file-digging was Nicole’s, with the help of Waverly’s skill for finding useful information. No one was acting the way they should.

Though she supposed it made sense. Hunting down demons and whatever the literal hell else tended to bring out the hidden sides of someone. Not much can be kept sacred.

“Yeah, well...you’re up,” Wynonna said, knowing how pathetic her observation was. Nicole tilted her head and gave Wynonna that look she always did—the “you know what I mean and you’re being willfully obtuse” one.

“Okay, yep, you’re always up. Bright and early.”

“Hey. I get it, Earp. It’s hard.”

Not a helpful thought or a helpful reminder. Because of course none of this was or was going to be easy. It was the extent that was corroding her, each day like acid on her skin. Wynonna clutched onto Peacemaker and thumped it onto her thigh. One, two, three. Weighty. Good. 

“It’s shitty.”

Nicole nodded her agreement and shoved her hands into her jacket. For all that Wynonna didn’t _love_ talking to Nicole about things, she appreciated that Nicole knew when to drop it. Most of the time.

“I can make you some breakfast too?” 

“Not if it’s any of Waves’ vegan stuff.”

Nicole chuckled. “I make her stuff and I make my stuff.”

“I’m surprised she hasn’t converted you yet.”

“Eh, she has. I’m working on it.” A small smirk. The way Nicole’s eyes lit up whenever she talked about Waverly was comforting to Wynonna. Babygirl had someone—admittedly—with a good head on her shoulders that she could lean on. Lord knows Waverly wouldn't find it in her big sister. 

“Fine, yeah. I’ll eat breakfast with you guys. Just dial down the cheesiness to a four, maybe?”

Rolling her eyes, Nicole turned to leave, Wynonna following her a few paces behind. Breakfast did sound like a good idea, in theory, and Wynonna couldn’t really remember the last time she ate an actual meal.

Soon she found herself in the kitchen, Nicole working away at the stove and Waverly yawning her entrance. Taking the cup of tea Nicole had ready for her, Waverly stood on her tiptoes to kiss her girlfriend on the cheek and sat across from Wynonna.

“You’re up early,” she said, taking a sip from her mug. 

“I heard there was breakfast. Or, actually, your girlfriend accosted me.”

“Right, yeah, how horrible of me,” Nicole said from behind her shoulder. Wynonna shrugged as Waverly looked at her big sister and Nicole fondly.

“Well _I_ heard you practicing bright and early. Maybe warn people before we all get woken up by gunshots?”

“Well maybe _you_ warn people before you and tater-Haught bang so loud that-”

“Wynonna!” Waverly’s voice went up a whole octave and glanced over at Nicole, who was snickering to herself as she flipped a giant pancake. Ass. She was probably pretty proud of herself.

“You’re—you’re deflecting!” Waverly said. “When’s the last time you slept?”

“Waverly…” Wynonna warned.

“Or had a meal that wasn’t a handful of chips washed down with whiskey?”

“I had...bread.” Wynonna crossed her arms and tried to look confident in her definitely great answer. Waverly shook her head and sighed. Nicole pretended to not hear the conversation.

And Wynonna was suddenly aware of how tired she was, the sort of exhausted where it felt as if she was viewing the world from behind her eyes. Yet every time she laid down she couldn’t sleep, not unless she trained so hard she physically couldn’t stay awake anymore. But she could only do that if Doc was around, and she hadn’t seen him for days.

That’s just how he was—how they were. Too around or too distant, too hurt or too unfeeling to give a shit anymore.

His immortality was gone. But there was something else too, an all-consuming feeling that only she could see in him.

Haunted.

It was funny. The only people who could come close to understanding what ailed them both and they couldn’t stomach being around each other.

The clatter of plates announced that breakfast had been served, Wynonna taking eggs and a pancake from the stack, drowning it with syrup. She could feel her body thanking itself for the gift of nourishment, and she took some of Waverly’s vegan sausages and dipped it into the syrup. She waited for a complaint from Waverly but it never came. Instead Waverly rubbed Nicole’s bicep and nuzzled into the crook of her neck, lingering for a precious moment before they began their meal. God. The way those two looked at each other could make anyone jealous. The way Waverly’s eyes crinkled, Nicole’s dimples and heart-eyed smile. Any other day Wynonna would’ve done her duty as older sister and teased Waverly about it. 

Not today. Wynonna was half alive and liminal. Eating felt arduous, almost painful. The coffee in her hand barely registered. The eggs that Nicole cooked were probably pretty good—as good as eggs could be, it’s not as if they had a huge range of quality—but...she didn’t know. It was all just…

Fuel.

“You need a day off,” said Waverly, Wynonna blinking out of herself and looking to her little sister. Nicole was over-interested in her food. That’s where they were now; in enough that Nicole was privy to their awkward family interventions.

“Tell that to the revenants,” grumbled Wynonna, stabbing her fork into her pancake. Honestly? She reveled in having something to do. Being alone with her brain was not something that seemed enticing. At least hunting was action, a physical sensation. The way the blood pumped in her ears, how her boots thudded hard hard hard like a beating drum as she ran, Peacemaker in her hand.

Mindfulness. Wasn’t it?

“I’m uh,” Nicole said, standing up and giving a quick look at Waverly, “gonna shower.”

Whatever secret signal Waverly sent to Nicole worked, the redhead exiting the kitchen and leaving the two sisters to talk in private. Shoving her plate aside, Wynonna folded her hands on the table, looking at Waverly expectantly.

“What?”

“When’s the last time you saw Mercedes?”

Wynonna frowned. “Where’d that come from?”

“Just…” Waverly looked down at the table, “I’ve been thinking about her. And if your throwback 90s alternative playlist you’ve been blasting is any indication, I know you have too. Or, trying not to.”

Yeah, and it was going pretty well until Waverly brought her up again. Another hour of target practice and maybe Wynonna could force herself to forget.

“It’s not your fault.”

That only reminded Wynonna that it was. And everything was welling up and ruining her perfectly good blank state of mind, grief so powerful it was making her dizzy. 

Avoidance. Run. Hide from all of it. The guilt was in her molars. She could taste it. 

“Well, I didn’t do enough. So.” Wynonna shrugged and tensed her jaw. “Who else but me?”

Abruptly, she stood from her chair and placed her dishes in the sink, using all of her self control to not shatter the plate just because it would feel better for that split second.

“Wynonna-”

“I’m going to bed.”

The declaration left Waverly’s mouth hanging open, teetering the edge of protesting or letting it slide. She chose the latter and began cleaning the table, watching Wynonna pull the curtains to her room closed. They didn’t do much for privacy, but a barrier was a barrier all the same. She slumped onto her bed and tore her clothes off, settling onto the sheets with a grumble. The dishes clanked from Waverly’s cleaning.

And later, through the thin walls, she could hear Waverly and Nicole speaking to each other in hushed voices, words muted but tones unmistakable. It was the cadence of a worried Waverly, rushed sentences and pauses. Nicole’s voice, softer, quieter, words of comfort. No doubt they were talking about her. 

Objectively, Wynonna understood why people were worried about her. She just wished they’d leave her alone to wallow in peace. But self hatred was tiring, and soon Wynonna felt herself drifting off, Peacemaker on her bedside.

* * *

It was worse when Wynonna woke up.

The house was dark. She must’ve slept for a while, but she didn’t feel any more rested than before, that sinking hole in her chest filled with dread. It was the specific sensation of knowing she’d had a nightmare she couldn’t remember, its tendrils still gripped tight as her eyes adjusted to nothing.

A heaviness she couldn’t place. There were too many points of origin, dull aches that made up the insistent background hum of her life. Reaching to the night table, Wynonna unlocked her phone to see she had a missed call from Dolls, as well as a text. Nothing from Doc. Unsurprising. She was more interested in the time. 

7pm.

A magnetic pull. Why now?

Nah. She knew why. When she checked Dolls’ text, Wynonna hoped he was giving her something to do. She wasn’t so lucky.

-[ _Get some sleep.]_

Asshole. Thinking of her. Wynonna, automatic like shooting a gun, found a new bottle of whiskey and threw the cap somewhere. Because if not this then what else?

Yet she stopped short as the bottle reached her lips. She wasn’t going to do this—not alone, anyways, as if getting smashed in public was somehow a form of self care, a step up from drinking alone in an ancestral home that barely had proper plumbing. 

Maybe she’d even see Doc at Shorty’s. She wasn’t sure if she should dread the prospect or not, and she was still undecided when she got into her truck, the tape stuck in the deck blasting The Downward Spiral. 

A little too on the nose.

And when she saw Doc behind the counter her mind still wasn’t made up, her fight or flight instinct begging her to go somewhere else, Pussy Willows or god, just anywhere but here. But Wynonna knew it was too late when Doc met her eyes, his legendary poker face falling for a split second that stretched onto eternity.

“Hey.”

A bottle of Alberta Premium was placed before her. The good stuff. So Doc did care after all. Attentiveness, anticipating needs before she could say anything. Too bad it was only about the whiskey.

The gunslinger didn’t return her greeting and only placed his hand on the bar, looking Wynonna over in hopes of finding something. Good luck, she thought. There wasn’t much to find anymore. 

They stood there, he and her, unspeaking and falling into the void shared between them. Misery loved company after all, and the two of them were as miserable as anyone could get. It shouldn’t have felt comforting. She didn’t _want_ it to be comforting. A few shots remedied that particular affliction. 

“Doesn’t get any easier, Doc,” Wynonna finally said. Doc sighed.

“Indeed.”

Another shot of whiskey. “Everything I touch just…” she flopped her hand onto the bar. “Alice. Mercedes-” shot, chaser, “you.”

Doc’s mustache twitched. That polarizing conflict again, where she didn’t know if she wanted Doc to reassure her or agree. He opted for neither, the worst of the options, refilling Wynonna’s glass with water and resuming his silence, unmoving from his spot across from her.

Another shot.

“Wish you’d say something.”

“What is there to say,” Doc shook his head, “that does not end in circular conversation?”

He had her there. Asshole. Shot. Chaser. 

There was a point where talking only made things worse, and they'd hit that milestone long ago, the same wounds reopened and made anew with the same serrated knife. There was this, though, aggressive silence and everything else. Fighting or fucking or whatever else to get closer without having to say anything. Standing here and hoping the floor would swallow her whole. 

“Why did you come here, Wynonna?” he said softly, pained, like her presence was as torturous to him as his was for her.

And Wynonna’s laugh felt just as tortuous. “I don’t know. Because what else am I supposed to do? Pretend I don’t give a shit, like you?”

Running his hand through his slicked back hair, Doc crumpled his hat onto the bar and chewed at his lip, taking a shot of whiskey for himself. Wynonna slumped. 

“We’re not good at this."

Doc's frown deepened. “We really aren’t.”

And in the long silence that followed Wynonna felt the drunken shouts jarring her like being woken from sleep each time, too loud and pummeling down her spine. Sensory overload while dulling the ones that should've mattered. The bottle of whiskey was lifted away before Wynonna could fit another shot in, Doc placing adjusting his hat back onto his head. Wynonna wanted to complain but knew better. The last time Doc cut her off… 

well. 

Soon she was holding her own hair back in a bathroom stall from being sick. 

* * *

It occurred to Wynonna that she wasn't sure how she made it home. 

The night was cold, because of course it was. Because Hell may be hot but Purgatory was a frozen wasteland she couldn't leave, making her long for the Grecian sun and the sound of waves lapping onto the sand. And the house wasn't much warmer; but at least it was four walls and a roof to stave off the wind. 

A singular thought began to drive Wynonna's body to her room. Whiskey. Alcohol. There was a bottle of whiskey somewhere. Maybe that one she abandoned when she went out. If there was one thing she was good at, Wynonna thought bitterly, it was being a barely functional alcoholic and killing things. A great little resume, there. Dumbass. She was trapped in her own skin, everything too tight and too close, shimmying out of her pants as she felt desperation in her knuckles.

She tore open the dressers, the wood thudding onto the floor, her clothes spilling everywhere. The arhythmic thumping was interrupted by the offbeat of shattered glass, a bottle slamming onto the floor and spilling the last if its contents. Wynonna swore, picking up a broken piece without thinking. The bite of the glass barely phased her, blood rushing from her fingers and palm as she gripped it. Warmth in freezing hands. 

Automatically, she moved the glass to her thigh, jabbing it in and pulling back, hissing at the rip of flesh and the rush that was felt after. She watched herself do it again, again, again, again, again, again, again until she lost count, each time making her swirl up into the ceiling. It didn’t feel good. Shocker, there: it was dull and noisy, seeing her own blood. Jesus, there had to be an out. Hours later after wanting nothing but to live and here she was, wanting nothing to do with consciousness. She wasn't even allowed to die. Maybe that’s why it was a curse. 

“Wynonna?”

_Shit. Shit, shit, shit._

“I knew you were going to be drunk but-” Waverly's face fell when she saw the mess Wynonna had made, her body going rigid when her eyes landed on her legs. 

“Oh my god, you’re bleeding.”

“I need to be alone. Don't-”

Wynonna could see realization course through Waverly’s body, her arms, her shoulders. “You’re hurting yourself.”

“Look,” she got too close to Waverly’s face. “I need to be alone.” The blood felt sticky and uncomfortable. She needed to be uncomfortable by herself, not with Waverly standing around.

She expected Waverly to shrink back, to hurt at how her big sister was treating her. But if she was she didn't show it, holding her ground and her face stone. 

“No. No, that’s the last thing you need.”

“Fuck off, Waverly.” She regretted as soon as she said it. Monster. That’s what she was, treating the most important person to her like that.

But her little sister was steadfast. Nothing like her. Never, ever, ever, ever anything like her. That’s what made her so perfect. She stood her ground, her jaw setting in defiance. 

“No.”

A simple word sharper than glass. And Wynonna felt shame as bile. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t’ve…”

Waverly inched closer, her face nearly touching hers. For once Wynonna felt so small compared to Waverly, her presence bigger than a titan. “I do not give a _shit_ if you’ll be mad at me. I’m not leaving you.” Her little sister slowly, gently, reached up to Wynonna's shoulder, who snapped away like she was afraid the touch would burn her. 

“Don’t touch me.”

Unfortunately for her, Waverly was strong as hell—body of a tiny amazon, she'd always said—and Wynonna felt the bed rising up to meet her, the world spinning when she landed on the mattress. 

“You need water—and a trash can. Don't move.”

Wynonna mumbled something as Waverly sped off to the kitchen. Something about how she couldn't get up if she tried, or maybe about how she needed a rag too. Perhaps there was an apology in there too, for all it was worth. 

The bed dipped beside her and she sat up sloggily, a plastic jug of water thrust into her uninjured hand. 

“Drink.”

She did, gulping down the water and sending her best wishes to future Wynonna, hoping that the hydration would ease the raging hangover that was sure to come in the morning. Waverly took the jug from her before she could drop it. 

“This is gonna hurt, Wyn.”

Before she could ask what Waverly meant, she felt the familiar sting of an alcohol pad—ha ha ha ha, more alcohol, sure—pressed into her bleeding thigh to wipe the blood away. Waverly was so, so smart. Of course she wouldn't settle for a dirty rag. Another package was opened and Waverly repeated the process on her hand, the feeling dulled this time as Wynonna got used to the pain. She jumped when she felt the cool gel over her wounds, Waverly trying her best to keep her expression neutral when she gently placed the gauze over and taped it up cleanly. 

“There,” Waverly whispered, the first aid kit rattling as she put the supplies away. “It shouldn't get infected now.”

“‘Cause that's on the forefront of my mind right now,” Wynonna slurred. 

“Then it's a good thing I'm here.”

It wasn't. This wasn’t good. She shouldn't see her like this. 

“I’m supposed to be…” Wynonna stopped. Supposed to be what? Better? Stronger? Or—shamefully, more frighteningly—sober? “Go. Please.” 

This was absolutely pathetic. Begging didn’t look good on her, and it felt disgusting coming out of her mouth and tumbling onto Waverly.

“I'm staying here until morning.” Waverly crossed her arms, resolute.

“M’what about Nicole? Isn’t she upstairs-”

“She’ll understand.”

“Waverly-”

“It's non negotiable.” 

There wasn’t any fight left to argue. Instead Wynonna stared at her bandaged hand, which looked alien and unsettling attached to her body. 

Limbs. She still had all of them, insides in their proper place and locked inside. 

Everything was so distant. Here and not. Touching her. Disgusting. Needed. “Maybe it should’ve happened. And I would’ve looked."

"Wynonna?" 

She remembered it all. It felt so long ago now, taking down the seven, when things were so _simple._ In the tunnels, stuck to a hospital bed. The non-sensation in her legs. How cold the concrete felt when she crawled on the ground. "He was going to split my ribs open. My chest and he was going to make me look-"

“Jesus-” Waverly slid a hand over Wynonna’s cheek. “Hey. Look at me.”

She did. Waverly, eyes wide and _scared_ , trying to be so brave for the both of them. 

“How’m I supposed to do this?” 

Waverly didn’t have an answer. 

“Fuck. Hey, ignore me. I’m smashed as shit. Like...car crash on the highway and burning up in flames smashed. I’m like...don’t worry about it.”

“That fucker deserved more than a trip to hell,” Waverly hissed, her face twisted in quiet, dangerous anger. Eyes red. Wynonna dug her fingernails into her thigh. Her fault.

“Waves, I’m okay. I’m more motivated than ever. Bulshar, whatever comes next...he’s fucked.”

“You’re not okay. I’ve never seen you like this.”

“So I’m supposed to be normal after everything that happened?”

“I never said that.”

“I think if anyone on this entire fucking planet deserves to be smashed right now, it’s me.”

But Waverly wasn’t convinced. "You don't deserve this—to hurt like you are."

"There's a whole lot I deserve."

"You've spent your whole life being told what you deserve. What you deserve-" Waverly said, cupping Wynonna’s face in her palm, "is to be safe. To be okay."

Wynonna reached up, taking Waverly’s soft hand into hers, her own joints calloused and rawed red from constant target practice in the snow. From holding Peacemaker. A fucking gun. The only thing she was worth.

“You’re everything, Waverly. My entire world." Her throat felt tight. She was not going to break now. Or, whatever, more broken than she already was. It was like he said. She was broken. Something rotten deep inside. "I shouldn't've left you. I thought, maybe, if I was gone you'd have a chance in this hellhole. To be…"

_To be anything that isn't me._

"That doesn't matter anymore.” Waverly wrapped her arms around Wynonna, holding her close and cradling her head into her chest. “You're here now. And I want you here. We all need you here.”

There was no way Wynonna would say how she really felt. So she didn’t. Because Waverly didn’t deserve to hear her bullshit, to listen to her ramblings of fear and helplessness and everything else that dogged her. She was her big sister and she had to act like it. 

“I missed you.”

Three years of regret and that’s all she could say.

Waverly gently laid Wynonna down into her bed, curling up beside her and grasping her good hand into hers. 

“I missed you too.”

Exhaustion took over when Wynonna buried her face into her pillow, soft and physical and nothing like the bed she was in in the tunnels. Here. Home. Waverly.

And her little sister felt small again when Wynonna took her into her arms, her world laying beside her. This is what it meant to be alive. For better or worse.

* * *

Pain, and not in the way she was expecting. There was the usual headache, that empty, turning windtunnel of a hangover blasting in her ears and brain. But it was the sharp sting in her palm and leg that was new, what momentarily confused her until she fully came to, eyes fluttering shut in shame as she remembered, vaguely.

Fuck.

She moved her fingers one by one, the gauze giving in her palm. The bed moved beside her. Waverly.

“'nonna?” her little sister said sleepily.

A rough mumble was all Wynonna could manage, mouth dry and good hand reaching for that jug of water she vaguely remembered existing somewhere. Sitting up was regrettable, the swirling worse and the noise louder, wrenching another mumble from Wynonna. The water found, Wynonna tore the cap off and gulped it down, spilling it over her chest in the process. Whatever. The mild discomfort paled in comparison to everything else she was feeling. The bed shifted again, Waverly sitting up and rubbing Wynonna’s shoulder as she finished her water, dropping the empty jug with an echoy thump-thump-thump.

“How’re you feeling?”

Rubbing her eyes, Wynonna blinked away sleep and squinted her eyes to the cold sun. “Like shit.”

“Well, you did drink a lot,” Waverly said. Wynonna didn’t have to see her baby sister to know what expression she was wearing—raised eyebrows and sucking air in through her teeth.

With a deep breath, Wynonna gazed downwards to her hand and legs, the white gauze crusted with dried blood. The regret hit her harder than the hangover.

“I’ll change it-”

“I got it,” Wynonna said, not meaning to snap. She sighed. “I got it, babygirl. And...thanks. For last night.”

Waverly nodded tersely, rising from the bed and handed Wynonna the first aid kit without another word. The curtain opened and closed with a metallic scrape, and so too did the white kit, Wynonna fumbling around and redressing her bandaging with a hissed grimace. God, that—this—was stupid. Drunk judgement or instinct or whatever it was. The cycle of self-destruction as sure as the sun rose to burn her oversensitive eyes.

Sliding into her fleece pajama bottoms, Wynonna opened the curtain of her bedroom to get some coffee, only to see Nicole sitting in uniform at the table, an extra mug beside her. Wynonna’s chest tightened. 

“Heyyy, Haught.”

Nicole nodded curtly, handing the cup of black coffee to Wynonna and watching her stumble into the chair furthest away from her. Someone was supposed to speak first, and Wynonna decided it wasn’t going to be her. She wasn’t in the mood (when was she?) for whatever Nicole had to say, the grave monotony on the redhead’s face an indication that she knew everything. 

“Wynonna-”

“Shhh,” Wynonna said, nursing her coffee. “Too loud.” 

Which was bullshit, of course. Nicole was speaking barely above a whisper, and as such ignored Wynonna. “Waverly told me what happened.” 

“Cool.” 

“Heard most of it, really. Thin walls, remember?”

Wynonna shrugged. 

“She told me because,” Nicole sighed and settled into her chair. “I’ve dealt with this before. The…” she looked at Wynonna’s bandaged hand, “for all the reasons you can probably guess.”

“Not exactly my first time dabbling either. For, uh, all the reasons you can probably guess.” Another shrug. “So.”

“Did y’wanna…”

“Nooope.”

But it seemed that question was merely rhetorical, Nicole leaning forward onto the table and closer to Wynonna. “There’s a lot goin’ on. Like...a lot. But you can’t keep doing this, Wynonna. The drinking.”

Wynonna scoffed. “What’re you lecturing me now?”

“No,” Nicole said calmly. “I’m telling you what you already know so you can hear it out loud.”

Wynonna was running out of shrugs to hand out. She took another gulp of her coffee. 

“We need you.”

She wished they didn’t. “Yeah, duh. I’m kinda the whole reason that-” she waved her hands around. That everything.

And then there was that look from Nicole. The “you know what I’m talking about and you’re being willfully obtuse” one. 

“You don’t want people to care but,” it was Nicole’s turn to shrug. “Tough shit. We do. And I know you care about us, which is why…" another look at Wynonna's hand. 

“I get it, Nicole."

"Then-" 

"Then show it? Yeah, I know. I know this isn't helpful or useful and it's affecting other people and not just me. I'm not-" Wynonna licked her dry lips, "I don't know. Strong enough."

The admittance came out easier than Wynonna was expecting. But what else was there to hide anymore? The façade broke a long time ago. At this point she was broadcasting it so loudly it'd cover up the gunshots from insomnia induced target practice. 

"That's the thing, Earp." Nicole's voice was softer now, that same annoyingly reassuring, kind tone Wynonna heard through the ceiling the other morning. "You _are_ strong. You fight supernatural shit that shouldn't even exist. You survived Jack. You died! You came back!"

A small chuckle from Wynonna. "So did you."

Nicole smiled, her dimples making an appearance. "We're not talkin' about me right now."

"I mean, we could. I'd do literally anything to get out of this conversation."

Nicole rolled her eyes. "I didn't have much else to add. I know you're not the talk it out and have heart to heart kind of person." She tilted her head. "Well, not with me, anyway."

There was something for Wynonna, though. "How's Waves?" 

Nicole's fingers clawed at the tablecloth. "That's what I'm talking about, Wynonna," Nicole said carefully. "Why you can't keep doin' this."

Anger and guilt. Because Nicole was right, and she didn't have to say it aloud for Wynonna to know it. It was unfair to make everyone, Waverly most of all, to pick up her pieces, to pretend there were no pieces to begin with. 

“I don’t even know why I did it,” Wynonna said suddenly. “It just happened.”

Surprised momentarily but correcting her expression, Nicole softened, nodding sadly. “Isn’t that how it usually goes? One second you’re there. And then…” she didn’t have to finish her sentence. Wynonna knew the process, how dreamlike it felt until she’d finally wake up and see what she’d done.

“Thought I kicked this shit when I was some angsty teen, you know?” Wynonna finished her coffee, gripping the handle like a lifeline. “Nearing thirty but nope! It’s this again.”

“I don’t think there’s an age where it’s better or worse,” Nicole said. “But I get it.”

Damn, thought Wynonna. She shouldn’t have drained her coffee so quickly. Standing up on feeble legs, she grabbed a bottle of Gatorade from the fridge, thanking her past self for having the foresight to buy an entire pack for days like this. 

“Are you gonna be okay?” 

Wynonna frowned. “Like in what way?”

“The cutting.”

Wynonna winced. She hated how it sounded when slamming her eardrums. “Yeah. Probably should lay off the whiskey a little. And the alcohol in general.”

“Probably,” Nicole agreed. “Our get-togethers are gonna be dry for a while. No booze.”

“Seriously?” Wynonna said, realizing she’d already gone against what she’d just said. “Okay, yeah, yep, fine. No booze.”

The stairs creaked from outside of the kitchen, Waverly’s soft footsteps slowing as she rounded the doorway, holding her hands and looking at Wynonna and Nicole with held breath. 

“Hey,” Wynonna said softly. 

Exhaling, Waverly forced a pained half-smile and brushed against Wynonna as she walked past her to give Nicole a quick kiss, the redhead gripping Waverly’s arm briefly before she took her coat and headed out the door. Waverly lingered at the door for a brief moment before turning to Wynonna, her hands back together and wringing. 

“How are you feeling now?” 

“Still like shit. But I could’ve felt worse, if you weren’t there.”

Another half-smile. “Yeah. Wanted to make sure you were okay.”

“I’m sorry. You didn’t deserve that.”

“You have a lot going on,” Waverly said, giving a half shrug. That was Waverly; where holding back meant everything in halves, half sentences and half smiles, and now a half shrug to round out the holy trinity. 

Wynonna sighed. “Can you just, tell me? Like, what you’re actually thinking?”

“I don’t…”

“Please.”

Waverly's eyes bore a hole into the floorboards. “You can’t keep doing this.”

So she’d heard. But from Waverly she’d hear it a thousand times over until it made it through her thick skull.

“I know.”

“You keep pushing yourself and it’s not getting us any closer.”

“Then what am I supposed to do?”

“You can’t keep running—I don’t mean from revenants. If anything you run to them more than you should, to drown it all out,” Waverly added, before Wynonna could make her shitty joke rebuttal. “I mean from Doc, so you don’t have to face sending Alice away. From Mercedes, so you don’t have to feel guilty.”

The flannel was sticking to the forming scabs on Wynonna's thigh. “I know I made the right decision with Alice. Can’t go fighting demons when I have my daughter strapped to my chest, right? But it still hurts. Like I could've made a better choice.” Wynonna said, tired at her own humour. “Mercedes...I know it’s not my fault. But, of course, the one person in this fucking town that didn’t hate me, that—” Wynonna laughed helplessly. That so many things. 

“And she gets caught up in it. Everyone does.”

“Not seeing her doesn’t make her not there.”

Babies have no concept of object permanence. “You’re right. Always are.”

Waverly's brows furrowed. “I’m not trying to be right.”

Not that she had to try. Wynonna's growing unease had her scratching her forearm, sniffling and avoiding Waverly's gaze. 

"I'm not mad," Waverly said gently. "I'm scared, Wyn. We all are."

It was supposed to be a comforting statement and something Wynonna should've wanted to hear, the basic human need to want to be cared for sated. There was nothing but shame, and Wynonna was quickly growing tired of how good she was at feeling it.

“Haught told me we’re instituting prohibition so,” Wynonna felt herself turning away to get dressed, Waverly reaching out to stop her. 

“Please.” 

Wynonna didn’t have to ask what Waverly plead for. With her good hand, she brushed Waverly’s hand in a small act of reassurance, trying to find her Big Sister instincts she lost sometime last night.

“It’s going to be okay. Maybe not immediately. But.” It took all her energy for the tiniest upward movement from the corner of her mouth. “It’s going to be okay.”

Waverly’s hand slipped away from under Wynonna’s.

“Are you?”

* * *

The high walls of the snowy Canadian shield stretched on beside Wynonna as she drove, the radio playing loudly to match the volume of the lowered window, the cool air refreshing on Wynonna’s face and hangover-addled head. There was something about driving with the windows down as the radio played, as if the wind made the music feel just as airy and light. Part of it was the nostalgia, a call to summer when it made sense to let the windows down, not in the sub Celsius weather that Purgatory always seemed to be in.

In the horizon, the Gardner house, empty of all its occupants. The only house for miles, save for her own. 

In her youth, Wynonna enjoyed going over to the Gardners’, partially because there wasn’t anywhere else to go. Mercedes had a giant room with a TV (wow!), her own computer ( _and_ a laptop!), and an old PS2 she didn’t really use unless Wynonna was over. Even then Mercedes wasn’t the one who ended up playing it, content to lay on her bed with feet crossed, Wynonna sitting up cross-legged and grinding through Final Fantasy X. Mercedes always seemed content with watching, even when Wynonna insisted that they could do something else, which usually consisted of eating a lot of Pizza Rolls. Other times they would just drive, no destination in mind but to mimic movement of some kind.

How many times had she been in the passenger seat of Mercedes’ car? Cigarette smoke still reminded her of it. The smell of summer, wet leaves. Worms. What the A/C in the convenience store felt like.

Wynonna rolled up the window. The summer would never come again. 

The accelerometer climbed. 80. 100. 120. The Gardner house slipped away as unceremoniously as it came.

* * *

Forty-five minutes later, Wynonna stepped out of her truck to the slush covered parking lot outside of a forest trail, the smell of forest snowmelt and mud all around her. The good type of chill. The sign— _NO WINTER MAINTENANCE—_ warned her as she stepped around the triangular metal gate, her boots instantly plummeting into the snow. She still knew the way, even if the trail was only marked by old footprints that had been half snowed over. Up the icy, snow-covered hill and straight forward until the cliff.

Here, of all places, because it was the only place that made sense, where she could face it. Because maybe it’d mean something like it meant something then, like being here could bring a piece of the past so she could feel it in the present. Like gripping a still beating heart.

_Do you believe me?_

She knew she did. It didn’t matter what she said because deep down, she knew.

_I’m sorry._

It was in Mercedes’ eyes, visible even in the dark. That and, unbelievably, that look for Wynonna’s approval. The desperation she could feel reaching out to her, a truth that couldn’t be said. And Mercedes came back a decade later, and it should have been okay, it all should have been _fine_ but nothing would ever be fine, not in Purgatory, not anywhere she was. 

Her fault. She didn’t ask for this and yet it was her fault. How many people had to hurt because of her?

And here she was, wasting her time in a fucking forest on the offchance it might’ve been cathartic, as if a grand revelation would come down to bless her. But an offchance was still a chance and if she could find something worth it she was going to take it. She’d climb all the way to the sky if that’s what it took. So that’s what she did; she crawled up the icy hill and fumbled for branches and rocks jutting from the peat covered ice, pulling herself up, higher, towards reconciliation. Each movement was more tiring than the last, her bad hand protesting and stinging, Wynonna gritting her teeth and hissing it away. The sun seemed far away, the forest greyed out and dead beyond the branches like venules stretching across the sky.

Something was wrong. Wynonna stopped, sliding down until her boots caught purchase on a protruding root. The hill wasn’t this big. It’d been a while since she’d been here, sure; but she remembered. Her head snapped backwards. The hill was still a hill, tiny in comparison to how long she’d been climbing.

_Fuck._

Lost. People got lost in the forest as of late. Trees moving, things there and then not. Now she was sucked into it, when all she wanted was to feel it again. To feel a piece of her she wished she could go back to, to tell Mercedes it was okay if she couldn’t say anything because she knew, she knew and that’s why she stood by her when no one else would. Why she even—

But it was her fault that she was left alone to die in the dark and drained of blood, face a rotting canvas and caul while her sister had long gone. It was her fault for everything, her fault she couldn’t save the only person who ever trusted her and liked her without having to prove anything.

All she wanted was to stand where they did so, so, so long ago and bloviate with the ghosts of the past. But the hill never ended and she slid backward, ice ripping open her already sliced up palm as she tried to stop her descent. A streak of red on translucent crystal. Wynonna’s eyes went wide. She felt sick looking at the contrast.

Lost. People like her floundering for air.

 _Wynonna!_ _  
_ _  
_Wynonna howled in anger. The trees playing tricks on her. Calling, like how they called when she walked into the light and saw Willa again, the sister she lovingly put down like the dog she said she wasn’t. And if it was Willa heralding her end now to claim her, she would understand.

She heard it again. It wasn’t Willa. Wynonna was almost disappointed.

“What?!” she called back, because why not? She was alone here like she was alone everywhere else. No one was there to hear her.

_I’m coming!_

She froze, akin to the ice beneath her. Dolls, his voice bouncing off the trees. This was a cruel joke no matter which way she cut it, that she was either imagining things or that Dolls, of all people, who hated the forest and was the only thing he seemed afraid of, coming for her.

Wynonna lost the failing grip on the ice and fell down the rest of the way, which seemed shorter now, only a few meters, as if the geography righted itself from knowing someone else was watching. Turning on her back, she looked at the canopy above her, not caring if she was getting soaked through. A moment to collect on her failure before her unheroic rescue.

The footsteps drew nearer and slowed when Dolls saw Wynonna laying on the ground, a second of hesitation before Wynonna lifted her hand in a weak wave.

“Hey.”

Soon Dolls was standing above her, curious and amused until his face fell at seeing Wynonna’s hand.

“Whoa, what-”

“Don’t wanna talk about it,” Wynonna groaned. 

Dolls shoved his hands into his jacket. “We’re gonna talk. But let’s get you out of here first.”

Lifting herself off the ground, Wynonna went ahead of Dolls out of the forest and down the path again, to her truck where she leaned on the cold metal and closed her eyes. She didn’t have to ask Dolls how he found her, or rather she didn’t care. Jeremy, probably, or Waverly, GPS signals or something. It didn’t matter. She felt Dolls lean on the truck beside her, his sigh one of vague relief.

“So. Why here?” he asked.

Wynonna ground the back of her head into the metal. “Ever have a cool time once and you wish you could do it again?”

“Yeah. Believe it or not.”

He waited for Wynonna to continue.

“Me ‘n Mercedes used to come here a lot. Talk. Smoke too many cigarettes. Typical sad teen shit.”

Opening her eyes, she turned to Dolls, who’d been looking leaner as of late, something slightly off in a way she couldn’t place. Wynonna sometimes wondered what Dolls did as a teen, but knew his teen years probably involved significantly less cigarettes and double the secrets. Growing up in Black Badge couldn’t have been idyllic. But she didn’t ask, and Dolls never said anything. Maybe he wanted to forget as hard as Wynonna wanted to remember.

“I just thought—” Wynonna shook her head. “I don’t know what I thought.”

“That it’d bring her back.” A statement, the kind said with the solemnity when someone could relate. 

“Or… something back.” 

Dolls nodded. “Yeah. I get that. Like paying respects.” 

That’s what it was in the end. Paying respects to time itself, as if it was a sentient being that could be mourned. Because everything felt like mourning as of late, be it time or Willa or Alice’s tangible absence that made it hard to sleep anymore. Like Mercedes, a fresh eighteen with nicotine coated fingers.

“That Mercedes is gone, Wynonna,” Dolls said softly, as if the truth would startle Wynonna if he said it too loud. The blood in Wynonna’s palm was beginning to feel disgustingly lukewarm. 

“I shouldn’t have come here.”

Dolls smirked. “Yeah, I’d be nice if you got lost somewhere that wasn’t a forest next time.” 

A smile back. “Noted.”

The silence between them was comforting, different. It wasn’t like Doc, that fond resentment and quiet pleading, but _nice,_ simple and plain and free. When Wynonna closed her eyes again, everything felt far off and outside of her, half aware of it and floating like something ephemeral. 

Mindfulness. A kind that wasn’t violence, the careful aim-click-squeeze-bang of a cursed gun, just silence and her and Dolls and the world that surrounded them. 

“She’s still here.” That hushed tone again, soft, Dolls looking at Wynonna in sympathy. “Go see the Mercedes that’s still here.”

There was a twinge of far away sadness in his voice, another thing Wynonna couldn’t place, that air of something out of reach that so defined Dolls. Yet, a quiet peace. A finality. 

“You know, the Dolls I first met wouldn’t have done any of this.”

Dolls smiled and looked off to the empty road with a hidden knowledge that made Wynonna uneasy. 

“Things change.”

A true statement if she'd ever heard one, one she raged against and gnashed at with all the ferocity of a trapped animal. Yet Dolls remained, unflinching, a small smirk off into the cyan sky. 

* * *

Hospitals held a temporal dissonance. It was always the middle of a grey winter afternoon no matter the weather, oppressive and ever-looming like the curse that flowed through her veins. Through the rotating door, an oppressive, heavy shroud of anxiety, the kind wrought from the inaction of waiting like a silent chorus. Worrying, wondering. Cold untouched breakfast from the hospital Tim Horton's. 

The smell of antiseptic made Wynonna’s stomach turn, the scent reminiscent of her abduction, and the many, many, overdrunk blackout nights that followed. Of last night.

She grit her teeth and bit back the images that threatened to pry into her head, making her way through the sickly green and blue corridors with uneasy familiarity to where she’d been dreading. In her left hand was a card and a crystal vase of flowers, the name of which Wynonna didn't remember, only captivated by the bright pink petals and picking them in her haste. She crossed the threshold and into the room with all the reverence of a confessional. 

How Wynonna wished she could have seen the abyss. 

But it wasn't her—Mercedes—in the stiff hospital bed of steel and pressed linen, but someone else, pale and asleep by the mercy of the IV.

The chasm in Wynonna’s chest widened broad enough for her to fall and hit the jagged rocks below. Too late. Biting the flesh inside her cheek, she set the vase of flowers on top of the stranger's bedside table, taking the card with her and crumpling it into her jacket. The wound in her palm opened once more. 

She didn't want to see what she wrote again. A thousand apologies too late but not enough to selfishly soothe the guilt and anger coalescing in her stomach. 

Mercedes never cared for flowers anyway. 


End file.
